


Making the Mask

by YDM



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationship, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantasy, Gen, Growing Up, Identity Reveal, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Politics, Separate Childhoods, Spoilers, Tags May Change, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 06:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20287018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YDM/pseuds/YDM
Summary: Emile von Bartels is a young boy who is reluctant to take up the mantle of the house. He is reclusive, preferring the company of his sister Mercedes and his mother more than anything else. His father is a commanding man that appears to want nothing more than a worthy heir to the House Bartels. This story unfolds as Emile grows older and changes throughout his life into adulthood.





	1. By the Roots

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I felt the events and characters within this piece were not explored enough in the main game, particularly Jeritza. I tried to tie the story as closely to the original plot as I possibly could. However, much of the dialogue and lore is left ambiguous, so I took creative liberties in interpreting some of the characters and events. Also, fair warning that the identity of villains in the story will also be revealed. Feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading!
> 
> UPDATE: Jeritza DLC has been released and, well, it changes some of my plans to say the least. For those unaware, I wrote this when he had no supports whatsoever. I has sort of left me in a weird spot in regards to updating this story. I may continue it to tie it into canon, or focus on my OCs.

Imperial Year 1167

Day 28 of the Verdant Rain Moon

“Emile, what are you doing here again?” Mercedes pants as she catches her breath for a moment, “Dinner is almost ready, your father will be very upset with you if you don’t show up again.”

Emile doesn’t stir. With his feet pressed together and his arms around his knees, he looks solemnly across the Bartels garden, his eyes fixated on a marble fountain. Mercedes waltzes to the patch of grass in front of him and squats down to lock eyes with him. Emile furrows his brow.

“Your dress will get dirty, Mercie, stand up,” Emile mutters, not shifting his gaze.

“You’re so funny, worrying about my dress like that!” Mercedes giggles, standing up and brushing off the sides of her dress, “But please get up! You know how much your father worries about you!”

Emile’s overly stern expression disappears as his face reddens and his lip begins to quiver. He buries his face into his knees to hide his face, but Mercedes had already seen it.

“He’s not worrying about me, he’s worrying about him!” Emile blurts out, his voice muffled by the sleeves of his shirt. He closes his eyes, worrying tears might soak into the cloth and ruin the dye.

“Oh Emile,” Mercedes squats down once more, resting her hand on the back of her younger brother, caressing him lightly, “I know, I know.”

They remain there for a moment as Emile weeps, with their backs against a bush with lavender flowers, his sniffles being distinct among the steady flow of water and light bird chatter. Gradually, the serene atmosphere of the Bartels garden raise Emile’s spirits as he chokes out the last tears.

“Oh, it’s not fair, Mercie, it’s not fair,” Emile whines, lifting himself from the ground, brushing leaves off of himself, “You never get an earful when it’s you in the garden or you tying your hair.”

“I know, but,” Mercedes sighs as she drums her fingertips against one another, “That’s because I only have a minor crest. You’re special Emile -- you’re the baron’s son.”

“I don’t want this,” Emile lowers his voice upon saying the next word, “_stupid_ crest! Why can’t crest people be gardeners anyway?”

“Well, it’s not just that,” Mercedes purses her lips as she searches for the right words, “How about this: if you come to dinner now then I’ll give you a present.” Emile’s face quickly lights up but is shortly followed by a downcast gaze.

“Father said I can’t take any more gifts from you,” Emile pouts, turning slightly away from his sister.

“Father also said you have to go eat!” Mercedes exclaims energetically, Emile recoiling slightly from surprise, “So are you going to listen to him or not?” He smiles too. He knew she had him cornered.

“Okay,” Emile said, following his sister out of the garden, “but the present better be good!”

-

Emile and Mercedes appear before the dining table, their faces glowing a faint orange as they approach the candlelight. The room was eerily silent, however most everybody was already in their seats. There, with an unamused expression, sat Baron Bartels at the head of the table. Mercedes sat with her mother, at the other end of the table, among the knights and servants to the house. Next to the Baron were other relatives of the Bartels family, some strangers, and an empty seat to the right of the Baron’s.

“Emile, you have kept our company waiting this entire time,” his father exclaims with an aggressive tone, “Please, sit, my son.” Emile’s face flushes red with embarrassment. He had completely forgotten.

“Oh, please excuse me, house Charon!” Emile speaks as he bows before scurrying to his seat, “I was patrolling outside, I had lost track of the time!”

“Patrolling the garden, were we?” His father scoffs as Emile takes his seat, “Protecting those petunias from those pesky weeds. Or was it the caterpillars this time?”

Emile’s expression wears an obvious sign of discomfort and he knows it. His discomfort would make his company uncomfortable, and that would make his father furious. His father rings a bell, meaning the meal had begun. Everyone else begins eating eagerly, no doubt being hungry from waiting. Emile, however, eats slowly, his mind rummaging through the possible lessons his father will repeat after the meal. _Will he finally give up on me?_ Emile thinks, unsure if that would be a good or bad thing for himself. He imagines life outside of House Bartels, what it would be like to be a mere commoner. He envisions a small stone hut in the countryside, like how he’d seen on his trips to other houses. A peaceful scene, with his own garden to tend to, sewing with Mercedes and her mother. Mercedes often tells him that he looks up to the commoner life too much, and that he should appreciate his advantages as a noble. Still, he can’t help imagining it. The thoughts fade away as Emile finishes his plate. He lifts his gaze to see that most of the table has gone, and only his father and the guests from house Charon remain.

“Now then, Alvaro, are we in agreement? It sounds like a fair price to pay for my house to protect the Church, if I may be so bold,” his father chuckles, pouring another glass of wine. Emile has seen his father do this often at dinners with company.

“Sounds excellent, Sir Bartels. I’m sure Sir Charon would agree that the church could do well to show their appreciation more generously,” the man named Alvaro remarks happily. Alvaro turns his attention from Emile’s father to Emile himself “My, my! Has your son been listening intently this entire time? I hadn’t noticed him!”

“Oh, ah,” Emile stutters as his mind returns to reality, “Yes, sir! Diplomacy is my passion!”

“Wow, the mind on that one!” Alvaro exclaims, appearing genuinely impressed, “Be sure to treasure a child like that, Sir Bartels. Passionate, intelligent, and bearing a crest. At such a young age, other houses would kill for an heir like that. And I mean _kill_.”

“Yes, of course,” Emile’s father is taken aback by the diplomat’s words, and he waves his hands dismissively, “Enough chatter though, I’m afraid I’ve kept you too long already. Please, allow my servants to escort you safely.”

After an exchange of formal farewells, the visitors leave, and Emile and his father watch them depart on horseback. As they fade into the darkening horizon, Emile’s father puts a hand on his shoulder. The grip is firm.

“Emile,” he says with his deep, steady voice, “You know what I’m going to say already, don’t you?” Emile thought he did, but hearing his father say that somehow made him uncertain. He rolls with first guess.

“The garden,” Emile answers, feeling his throat starting to swell, “I know. Please, father—”

“That damned garden, I should have it destroyed at this point,” his father is speaking with more anger than anticipated, “It only takes you further away from me. Why can’t you see how important this is, Emile?” Emile is silent. His father repeats, “Emile, I know you are young. But I am not. Know that soon, you might have to take the mantle of this house. That’s not of my own will.”

“Father, I—”

“The nerve you have, to lie to that man’s face and say your interest lies in diplomacy. You’d make a fool out of me if they were to find out the truth, the truth that you have no interests outside of yourself. Don’t you care about protecting the church? About your own father? About this family? You have a crest, my son. A crest! That power is greater than any land or title, than any ordinary sword or arrow. That is a blessing and yet you treat it like it’s some plague. Do you know how much that hurts me?” His father takes a brief pause to breathe, turning away from Emile for a moment, then turning back and kneeling in front of his son, catching his eyes, “Son, I need you to become strong.”

“Strong?” Emile asks, knowing well what he means. He goes along with it, fearing what might happen if he didn’t.

“Yes, strong. Not just for me. But for Mercedes, and her mother.” His father’s words echo in his mind now. He hit a nerve, one that previously he hadn’t struck before. “To be strong, I need you to drop the frivolity. Instead of the gardens, go to the training range. Take my sword and practice your swing. This peace is ours, son. Others want it, so we have to fight to keep it.” _Others want it_, Emile repeats the words in his head. They made him scared.

“I understand, father,” Emile replies, lowering his head, “I’m sorry to worry you.”

“Very good,” his father sighs as he stands back up, “As of now, know that this is our final talk about this. You are forbidden from going to the garden. I don’t even want to see you gossiping with Mercedes and her friends. You have no business with girls at your age. You are to protect them, so you must separate yourself. Remember my words.” His father leaves without giving pause for a reply, the large door to the house slamming behind him. Exhausted, Emile sits down on the entrance steps, and watches as the moon arises from the dark-enveloped sky.


	2. Growing Pains

Imperial Year 1167

Day 4 of the Horsebow Moon

The windswept fields of the Bartels estate beckon adventure and freedom, and Mercedes cannot help but feel its allure. She sighs as she takes in the view from her balcony, the landscape only serves to make her feel even more confined by her own quarters. The days are sluggish when Mercedes is alone in the manor as of late. With servants making poor company and her mother only having so much energy, she found herself sewing and praying alone to pass the time. She closes her eyes and becomes absorbed in deep thought as a light breeze gently pushes past her. Clasping her hands together, she offers a small prayer to the Goddess. Suddenly, her attention is drawn to a distant rhythmic drum. From the distance, she sees a small band of cavalry come into view and slowly trot their way towards the estate. _Emile!_ She rushes for the door and heads downstairs to greet the arrivals.

As the Baron and his battalion begin to dismount, Mercedes rushes out in search of Emile. She finds him among the horses but looking very different. His long hair was cut short and he didn’t wear his usual smile when returning from a trip with Baron Bartels. Still, she embraces him, taking him by surprise.

“Emile! It’s been almost a week! I’ve been so bored!” with a cry of joy, she smothers her little brother with her usual kindness. Emile accepts it but gives little in return.

“Hello, Mercedes,” Emile muttered, squirming slightly in discomfort. _Mercedes?_ She thinks. _What happened to Mercie?_ She lets go of Emile and takes a step backwards.

“Emile, you look—different,” she spoke with slight worry, “What’s with the new haircut?” he turns to his father, who glares at him with stern eyes. He turns back to Mercedes with a pained expression.

“It’s because I’m growing up,” Emile replied, carefully averting his eyes just slightly from meeting his sister’s, “I’m going to become a knight.”

“A knight? What about—” Mercedes was interrupted by the beckoning of Baron Bartels.

“Come now, hurry inside,” he motioned for them towards the entrance, “Mercedes, the man is tired from traveling. Save your gossip for your friends.” They obey and make their way into the manor, but the tension remains. Emile quickly hurries up the stairs, shutting himself within his chamber. Feeling dejected, Mercedes turns to look for her mother, seeking warmth.

-

In his room, Emile looks at the mirror intently, surveying his own hair. _It looked way better in the lake reflection_, he says to himself, twisting the fringes between his fingers. His father’s orders resonated in his mind, going against every instinct of his own. He loved his sister, why must he ignore her? She and her mother are the only ones who make him laugh. He feels lost and alone. In moments like these, he used to rely on the singing of her mother or the caressing of his sister. Now, he has nothing but himself and his bad thoughts. Thoughts of humiliation, of disappointment, of losing people he loved, thoughts having things taken from him. They overwhelm him at once, and he sinks onto the floor, tucking his head behind his knees and arms.

In times like these, he knows his sister and mother would pray. They would say that the Goddess was the one who gave them strength. Still, Emile refuses to pray. He used to pray all the time, and nothing good ever happened. He prayed his father would stop humiliating him, that he could tend to a flowerbed in peace. But the Goddess never listened, and the Goddess never once sang to him or cheered him up. He reached the conclusion that the Goddess simply didn’t care about him, so why should he care about her? Instantly, he feels ashamed at these thoughts. He knows he should respect the Goddess, if only because praying brings his sister and her mother happiness.

To cheer himself up, Emile opens his bottom drawer, revealing the large assortment of accessories that he and Mercedes had sewn together. He rummages through them, taking a moment to reminisce. A pair of gloves that he had outgrown the year after, partly because they were too small to begin with. A scarf that itched his skin so badly, he couldn’t wear it. A wool cap with a tear that they never got around to mending. It’s all junk, but he wouldn’t dare throw them away. Desperate for any sort of comfort, he took the itchy scarf and wrapped it around himself. It provides him a bit of warmth, and suddenly it felt like the itchiness wasn’t so bad anymore.

-

“Mommy?” Mercedes calls out, peering into her mother’s quarters to find her deep in prayer. After a moment she turns to her daughter.

“Mercie, darling, what is it?” she asks tenderly, sensing the sadness from her voice already. Her mother always knew how she felt before she did.

“Well,” she takes a deep breath before explaining, “Emile’s been acting strangely since he arrived from his trip with his father. It’s like he doesn’t want to talk to me, and he just runs away.”

“Yes, I thought I heard him running up the stairs,” Mercedes’ mother recalls, putting a finger to her chin “And he didn’t bring me a flower like he usually does.”

“I’m worried I might have upset him,” Mercedes admits, “Could it be that he’s sad I didn’t like his haircut?”

“Ooh, a new haircut, is that so?” her mother lets out a light chuckle “You should know your brother is sensitive to these things by now.”

“I hope he doesn’t stay mad too long,” Mercedes pouts, resting her hands on her cheeks, “I’ve been so lonely all week. You’re the only one who spends time with me, mommy. This house feels so lonely without him.”

Her mother fell silent, a pained expression replacing her usually warm smile. She beckoned Mercedes to come closer and embraced her.

“It has felt lonely, hasn’t it?” her mother agrees, stroking Mercedes’ hair and rocking back and forth rhythmically, “It won’t be like that much longer, Mercie. I promise.” Mercedes, confused by her sudden change of tone, felt unsettled. Rather than being comforted, she felt like she was comforting her mother by being in her arms.

-

The sun began tuck itself underneath the sky as the house dinner ended, and most others returned to their quarters. Emile notices Mercedes lingering by her side of the table, staring at her feet. With his father back in his quarters, he could approach her and explain everything. He scans the dining hall, noting the presence of only servants cleaning the table before scurrying fervently to his sister. She lifts her gaze and her face lights up with relief.

“Mercie—” He doesn’t correct himself. It doesn’t feel right to call her Mercedes, “Can we, um, talk for a moment?”

“Yes, of course Emile! Please!” She cries gleefully, already approaching him for an embrace. Emile steps back and she’s given pause.

“Not here,” He declares with a frown, “Let’s go outside.” Worrying once more about her brother, Mercedes smile dwindles. She nods, and he motions her to follow him. From the dining hall, they head out to the rear courtyard. A bit further still, they continue until they reach the gates of the Bartels Garden. Emile knows he is forbidden, but he decides he might as well if he’s going to talk to Mercedes. _This will be the last time_, he says to himself, wishing that he could be wrong. It’s the most private place in the Bartels estate, and the familiarity of the place helps ease his nerves.

“Emile, you’ve been silent the entire walk here,” Mercedes finally asks, as they navigate their way through the garden bushes, “What’s the problem? Please, tell me so I can help.”

“You’re the problem!” Emile blurts out, turning his face from his sister. Mercedes mouth widens in shock, and she stops walking. This is the first Emile has ever raised his voice at her, and with such a heavy insult. Her heart sank. Emile didn’t turn to face his sister, he couldn’t bear to witness what her reaction could be. He had to endure it and not let himself break down now. “It’s because of you, I’m not strong.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mercedes shouts, half-heartedly. Her indignation is being smothered by a complete sadness.

“Everything we do together, it makes me weak,” he clenches his fists, muttering, “How can I to protect you with a sewing needle? Or with a shovel?”

“Why would you want to protect a problem?” she chokes out, feeling conflicted at her brother’s words, “What am I here for then, if I can’t spend time with my brother? You’re the only person besides mom who talks to me and plays with me! I think I’d rather be gone than be protected!” In a panic, Emile turns to face his sister.

“Don’t say that, Mercie!” whimpering as he grabs her by the shoulders. He’s on the verge of tears, but he’s managed to keep them from spilling.

“Who’s telling you these things?” Mercedes says, tears beginning to flow freely from her face, “This isn’t like you Emile. You want to protect me but you’re hurting me instead. Why can’t we be how we’ve always been?”

“It’s like you said, I’m special,” Emile’s lowers his voice, “I’m the only son of Bartels. I have a crest. So, I have a duty.” A silence falls over the garden, and the words begin to weigh on Mercedes. She told him that. Was it her fault that he changed? She pulls in Emile and lets herself cry on his shoulder for once instead. After a moment passes, she pulls herself back and wipes her tears with the cuff of her sleeve.

“So, what,” she asks, regaining the softness in her voice, “We can’t talk or play anymore? I don’t want that, Emile.”

“That’s what father says, and that I should focus on training,” his gaze veers to the starry night sky, hopelessly, “I’m not even allowed in the garden anymore.”

“We’re in the garden right now, silly!” Mercedes laughs, easing the tension between them, “So are you going to follow your father’s orders or not?”

“No—I mean yes,” he buries his head in his hands “I don’t know.” Mercedes pats him on the back.

“You know what I just realized?” Mercedes exclaimed energetically, “I never gave you your gift from that other day!”

“Gift?” Emile looks up, slightly confused. Then, he recalls what she meant, “Oh right. I never really expected anything.”

“Well, I meant it!” she pauses for a moment, then tilts her head, “Although, I guess you can’t really use it anymore.”

“What do you mean I can’t use it? I can use anything!” Mercedes giggles as she pulls out a black hair ribbon, made from a shiny velvety material.

“I know you cut your hair and you don’t want to tie your hair in front of Baron Bartels,” Mercedes says, handing him the ribbon “But I guess I could just give it to you as a good luck charm! You can wrap it around your hands before you pray.”

“Erm,” Emile took the ribbon in his hands, mumbling, “I don’t really pray much, but thank you, Mercie. Now, whenever you’re sad, I’ll give you a gift a gift to cheer you up in return. I promise!”

“I look forward to it!” she smiles gently, and Emile only gives a forced laugh in response, “And you really should pray more, Emile. It makes you strong, you know!”

“I know, Mercie," he lies. He doesn't know, not really. Not the way she did.

“Let's start heading back," Mercedes finally says, feeling much better from earlier. Emile agrees and the two of them make their way through the vast yard of of the Bartels Estate. They distance themselves in the manor as they return to their rooms.


	3. Disciplinary Action

Imperial Year 1167

Day 5 of the Horsebow Moon

“I’m not sure that’s feasible, you see,” Baron Bartels spoke with hesitation in his voice, “As you understand, I don’t have many options with the position I’m in.” He, along with other knights of the house were sitting at the roundtable in the war room of the manor. Atop a candlelit table was a scattered mess of maps, records, and quills. Across from the Baron and his knights was a single diplomat and four guards, their lances positioned erectly at their sides as to signal an air of assertiveness. The colors and insignias of their clothes would have one conclude that they are sent at the behest of House Fraldarius.

“We are, of course, sympathetic to your circumstances,” the diplomat replied with slow, monotone cadence, “But time is not. With the Kingdom’s planned invasion of Sreng fast approaching, your house remains more of a hindrance than a help to the Kingdom’s forces.”

“I see,” Bartels concedes, drumming his fingers on the table as he plans out his response, “That is most regrettable, and you have my sincerest apologies.”

“The Kingdom does not need apologies, it needs gold and steel,” the diplomat sighed, clasping his hands together and he fixated his gaze on the Baron, “Or at the very least, a competent crest-bearer to lead the charge. You simply offer none of them.”

“Not at the moment, no,” the Baron clears his throat, finger-drumming increasing in pace, “However, you must know that my beautiful, invaluable son is still only nine years of age, and he is sure to—”

“Right,” The diplomat sinks back into his seat, resting a hand under his chin, “And I suppose the Kingdom should order its troops to halt and stand idly until your son can properly wield a sword in ten years’ time?”

“Well, that is to say,” the Baron swallows, fearing the worst, “That you must excuse our absence in the conflict. On my honor, we are sure to pay the Kingdom back tenfold!” With a trembling hand, he takes a glass of wine and downs it in one swig. Alcohol to calm the nerves.

“Baron Bartels,” the diplomat speaks with forced restraint, “Given the mass of debt you still owe the Kingdom, can you truly swear on your honor with any weight? We have given you ample time to sort through your finances or give up property as compensation. We ask you now, as a final word of caution, to not try the patience of our King any further. He is a merciful man, not a foolish one.” With his final word, the war room is submerged in silence as the drumming of the Baron’s fingers stop. The Baron scrutinizes the diplomat and his knights. He suspects their eyes are surveying the room, noting the value of the lavish velvet drapery and regal décor. Ceremonial swords and lances mounted on the walls, intricately patterned rugs imported directly from Brigid, and extravagant painting of King Lambert with a gilded frame. It’s a verified authentic and one of the Baron’s most prized possessions. _No better than thieves,_ the Baron decides. Suddenly, slamming both palms on the table and lifting himself up, he makes a concluding statement.

“Give me until the first day of the Wyvern Moon to come up with an offer, I assure you that I will offer the most I can to the Kingdom. I swear it, on Lamine of the Ten Elites.”

“Very well,” the diplomat scribbles something on a piece of parchment and then tucks it into a satchel, “I pray for Lamine’s sake that your oath is earnest. We must return to our Lord with great haste, so please excuse us.”

“Yes, certainly,” the Baron exclaims, feeling relieved that his offer was accepted, “Please, allow me to send my knights to accompany you—”

“That will not be necessary, though we appreciate the gesture. We will see ourselves out as quickly as possible.” The Fraldarius diplomat bows and exits the room, with the guards following shortly after. The Baron grits his teeth, watching as they depart. _An egregious affront_, Bartels thinks,_ to be denied formalities in his own house!_ Realizing he is in no position to challenge their disrespect, he lets a heavy sigh escape his lungs. He, at the very least, was able to weasel out a postponement in this meeting. His usual charisma and wit were rendered useless by the aggressive Fraldarius diplomat. House Fraldarius is a shrewd lot, he knows. It’s no wonder why they are held in such high regard by the King. _Lapdogs_, he scoffs at the thought. _That’s what they are_.

“The meeting is over, you are all dismissed,” The Baron grumbles with a swat of his hand. The knights all quickly withdraw, leaving the Baron in solitude. Needing to lift his soured spirits, the Baron grabs a bottle of wine from atop the table and attempts to pour himself a glass. Empty. _Those Fraldarius are thirsty bastards, aren’t they?_ he tells himself. He lets out a hearty chuckle. His own thoughts never fail to amuse him.

“I request a servant at the war room, immediately!” the Baron yells out, slamming his fist on the table three times. Immediately, as if on cue, a lean servant peers from the doorway, “Ah, Simien. Did you happen to just be standing there?”

“Sir Bartels,” Simien steps into the room, bowing before approaching the Baron, “I was hoping to report something to you.”

“I’m in no mood for reporting, can’t you see I am exhausted from a meeting? I’ve had enough reporting for the rest of the Moon. Fetch me a bottle of wine, will you?”

“Sir, I deem it to be of great urgency. You see, it has to do with your son.” The Baron leans forward, gripping the arms of his chair intently.

“Is that so? Close the door and continue.” The Baron commands. Simien obeys.

“I obeyed your orders and kept a close eye on your son following your arrival. After supper, he approached his sister,” Simien continues as he watches the Baron’s eyes widen, “They spoke only a few words, then he led her outside of dining hall.”

“So? You followed them as per my orders, correct?” the Baron speaks with fierce intensity, to the great discomfort of his servant.

“Of course,” Simien stammers, “I made sure to keep my distance to avoid suspicion. I’m afraid to say your son visited the garden again, against your explicit commands and conversed with his sister.”

“Goddess, damn him!” the Baron voice booms, echoing. Then, his face hardens into a scowl as he slams a fist on the table, “I suppose he leaves me no choice then.”

“Sir does that mean—” Simien raises a hand to put it over his heart, knowing the Baron’s intentions very well.

“Yes. I will get rid of that girl and her mother. They’ve served their purpose here. Housing them is a waste of gold, and they only serve as distractions in my son’s path to power.”

“How will we rid of them?” Simien asks, fearing the task that will undoubtedly befall on him.

“I suppose we could just exile them. That type of thing is not uncommon among the houses of Fódlan,” the Baron pauses, taking a moment to contemplate his plan of action. Then, an idea comes to him. _A stroke of genius,_ he tells himself as he considers it.

“Yes, I suppose that is obvious—” Simien’s relieved response is immediately cut off.

“Or we can kill them. I suppose that could be far less messy, as to avoid rumors and ill opinion of the house—yes, then we can tell the public that a group of bandits caught them while travelling,” the Baron speaks with a low, intense voice, “Imagine, the political sympathy we can garner with that. Perhaps the King might even give me leniency on my debts on the grounds that I may need time to grieve.”

“That sounds like a well-calculated plan, Sir,” Simien assents, despite his own conscious.

“And most importantly,” the Baron places a hand firmly on the table as he hoists himself out his seat, his voice much calmer now, “My son will see the necessity of protecting the house, and he will find the desire to grow stronger. I’ll use the love he has for those two to good use.”

“Understood, Sir. Shall I fetch you your wine then?”

“Your obedience is much appreciated, Simien. If only some of that would rub off on my son.” With a bow, Simien exits the war room, once again leaving the Baron to himself. He sits down as he repeats the plan of action in his mind. Deep in thought, he drums his fingers on the table steadily.


	4. Gone

Imperial Year 1167

Day 9 of the Horsebow Moon

Almost like a mist, a mid-autumn rain begins to gently fell on the Bartels Estate. Taking a moment to realize it, Emile looks up, shielding his eyes from the falling droplets of water._ I have to go back now_, he frowns as he realizes this. He looks back at his training partner and observes the work he put in today. Some scratches, but none that broke through the first layer of bark. _I’m a little stronger now_, he thinks. He hopes. With a wooden training sword in hand, he starts making his way up a natural path, worn down through thousands of footsteps before his. The imposing figure of the Bartels manor appears from over the curvature of the hill as the rain begins to pick up in volume. Emile doesn’t pick up his own pace, however. He lets the water, chilled by the northern gales, run down his back without any concerns. Like a blanket, it envelops him with a rhythmic hum. _If only it weren’t for stupid sickness,_ he wonders,_ I could stay here longer instead_.

“Emile, leave your shoes on the porch,” a servant reminds him as he makes his way up the steps, “Also, your father wishes to see you. It seems important.” The servant hands him a towel to dry himself with.

“I understand,” Emile speaks before swallowing his throat. _About what?_ He removes his shoes and takes the blanket from the servant. His pulse quickens. _Does he know? What will he do? _He rushes inside, afraid to keep his father waiting any longer. While making his way towards his father’s quarters, Emile can’t help but feel the house feeling more lifeless than ever before. The number of servants and knights serving under the house had been gradually dwindling. This left the manor interior eerily still, with only the squeaking of laminated wood to accompany him upstairs. Finding the door to his father’s chamber ever so slightly open, he peers inside first. He sees his father at his desk, with one hand on his head and the other tapping his fingers against the surface. He pulls his head back from the door and takes a moment to gain some composure, puffing his chest out slightly and keeping his feet a good distance apart. He knocks on the door. He hears some rustling from within.

“Come in, my son,”, Baron Bartels’s usually steady voice appearing more vulnerable than usual, “Please, come in.” Emile pushes the door and is seized by his father’s embrace. It is tight, unfamiliar, and slightly painful. It’s a feeling he only knows from memories without images. He returns the feeling as best he could. Despite the unfamiliarity, he welcomes it.

“My son, my sweet, beautiful son,” he chokes out, “Terrible fortune has befallen this house. I hardly have words.” The sound of his voice cracking stirs a visceral confusion within Emile. His father in such a state, yet Emile could not fathom how, why, or what.

“What happened?” Emile manages to ask from within his father’s arms.

“Your mother, your sister,” the Baron howls, “They are—they were killed, by bandits” Emile’s eyes widen. His hands fiercely grip onto his fathers’ arms, holding onto him to maintain balance.

“No—no, they can’t—” Emile’s knees start shaking, his body wanting nothing more than to fall down and simply submit to world around him.

“I know how much this news hurts you, Emile,” his father’s voice suddenly regaining its strength “Please, hold onto me. Together, we can endure this grief.” For the first time in his life, Emile surrenders himself entirely to his father. He dangles from his arms, limp limbed. Like a newborn, he cries in front of his father, unfettered and unashamed. The tears streaking down his face feel colder than the rain outside.

-

The carriage begins to rock violently as it veers into rough terrain. Frightened, Mercedes turns to her mother and finds that she bears the same face of bewilderment. Across from them is a stone-faced knight and the house servant Simien, his eyes appearing sunken from exhaustion. Through the grated windows, Mercedes sees the dense environment of a forest. The carriage slows to a halt and the driver whistles.

“We’ve arrived, Lady Bartels,” the driver shouts as he dismounts the steed. He comes around the side of the carriage to open the door for them, gesturing outward with an open palm.

“And where exactly, might I ask?” Mercedes’ mother inquires as Simien and the knight exit. In the distance, Mercedes and her mother can see nothing but dense forestry. As her mother steps out, sound of leaves crunching follows. Mercedes exits quickly after, wrapping herself tightly against her mother’s side.

“Charon should be just through this wood,” Simien explains while adjusting the collar of his coat, “It seems that an incident involving merchants and bandits has caused the road ahead to be blocked off. I’m afraid this detour is the only way to guarantee your safety.”

“I-I see,” Mercedes’s mother shivers as the outdoor winds begin to pick up, sending chills across her entire body. The Faerghus autumns are not known for their kindness, after all.

“It’s regrettable that we’re forced into these circumstances,” Simien sympathizes, “but we have no other choice—even returning the way we came appears dangerous. Rest assured, this is the safest passage.” Placing her confidence in the servant, Mercedes’ mother grabs her daughters’ hand tightly. They follow as Simien escorts them through the dense forest. The knight watches their flank. The two ladies look ahead expectantly, hoping for the town of Charon to come into view as soon as possible. Instead, they enter a brief clearing in the woods where their path is suddenly interrupted by a wide river stream. They observe the water, churning into white foam as it crashes against the rocks.

“This way appears treacherous,” Simien sighs as he beholds the sight before him, “There should be a bridge not far from here.” Mercedes pulls herself tightly to her mother’s side now, wishing nothing more than to be back inside. The cold weather and warning of bandits had both been troubling her, and now they had lost their way as the sun began fading from the red sky. Shadows of the trees begin to stretch across the ground, like claws of a beast out to get her. Her mind begins to conjure up prayers for itself to curtail the fear. Her mother, on the other hand, feels her senses heighten. Her intuition felt something was amiss—noting the knights silence and Simien’s uneasiness. Immediately, she whips her head around with both her arms holding Mercedes close to her waist. She steps backwards.

“Careful not to fall in the river, Lady Martritz,” the knight remarks with his sword raised towards her, “I don’t want this to take longer than it must,” Her eyes widen as she realizes exactly is unfolding before them. Mercedes is not so quick to process this.

“Lady Martritz?” she gasps at the sound of her past name, “What exactly is going on here?” Her voice cracks saying this and Mercedes begins to cry. The knight takes a few steps forward, cornering them against the coursing river stream.

“These are orders I cannot refuse. Please, do not resist ma’am,” the knight prepares for a horizontal swing when he is suddenly tackled from his left. Simien knocks him over, sending the blade tumbling from the knight’s grip. Recoiling from the shock, the knight scrambles to regain his bearings. Without hesitation, Simien grabs the sword from the ground and haphazardly slashes at the direction of the knight. He strikes at the waist, cutting through some of the mail from the skirt of the armor. The knight is once more knocked off his feet from the force of the blow. Falling onto his back, the knight places his arms on the ground, using his elbows to push himself upwards. Now with his eyes locked on the knight, Simien places his off-hand on the back of the blade and deftly thrusts at knight’s legs, tearing through the exposed cloth of the upper thigh. The knight cries out as the flesh rips. He writhes in sweltering pain. Mercedes’ mother watched the entire scene before her in utter disbelief while her daughter’s gaze was buried inside her coat.

“Spare their lives and I spare yours,” Simien mutters between breaths, still wielding the sword in a defensive stance.

“Gah, you—” the knight grits through his tears, desperately attempting to put pressure on his open wound. Simien pulls a white handkerchief from his coat pocket, tossing it towards the knight. The knight takes it quickly.

“Tend to your wound. Return to the Baron if you wish,” his eyes are fixed on the knight with great intensity, “Tell him that the they are both dead and that I was killed for defying orders.” He gives the knight a moment to respond as the pain begins to subside.

“Why should I heed your words?” the knight finally says through clenched teeth, “And how would I explain this lesion on my leg?”

“I’m sparing your life, consider it a favor in return.” Simien leaves no moment for a response as he tosses the sword to the side, then ushers both ladies to follow him out of the clearing. The knight watches them leave without intentions of chasing them.

“Simien—” Mercedes’ mother is on the verge of tears, still shaken by the entire premise of the encounter. There are no words she can express at the moment. Instead, she feels like screaming, crying, and laughing all at once. Mercedes, still light-headed from fear, clings to her mother with teary eyes.

“We are heading towards Galatea,” Simien broke through the silence, “There is a church there that accepts exiles.”

“How do you know?” Mercedes’ mother asks, sounding more hopeless than doubtful.

“I hail from Sreng. That church has housed many of my people over the years, including myself.” Mercedes’ mother was embarrassed at her surprise. She never knew, despite having Simien as her servant for so many years.

“Oh, I see.”

“Galatea is not much further from here, seeing as the river is far behind us now,” Simien says with a hushed voice, “We’ll have time to discuss this further later if you wish, but let us remain silent for now.” Mercedes’ mother quietly agrees, and pulls her daughter closer to her side. They continue hiking forth, keeping each other at arms distance.


	5. A Moment of Repose

Imperial Year 1167

Day 10 of the Horsebow Moon

With a freshly-lit candle in hand, Baron Bartels hastily makes his way down into the cellar of his manor. The air is damp, thick with the faint smell of wine and rot. To the Baron, it is a lovely aroma. He instinctively makes his way through the narrow corridors of the cellar, running his fingers along the grooves of the cobblestone walls as they came into the glow of his candlelight. The Baron is in genuinely good spirits for the first time in weeks. He had already written his official statement on the matter and sent an envoy to Fhirdiad, the Kingdom Capital. Finally, he slows down as he reaches a large wine cask marked with a faded crest of Lamine. Gently, he places the candle on the smooth stone floor and grabs the lid of the cask and twists it. With a satisfying click, he pulls it off, revealing a mass of bullion and other precious jewels. From his pocket, he opens a silk coin purse. Carefully, he takes each gold coin between his fingertips drops it into the cask. _The Kingdom demands my aid_, he tells himself with a smirk,_ without even inviting me to the Fhirdiad roundtable. _Finished emptying the purse, the Baron slams the cask shut. Anger stirs within him. _Want to funnel your funds into some useless church? Fine, but don’t expect me to pay for it, bastards._ Picking up the candle, he makes his way out of the cold cellar.

\--

“Simien, is that you?” a young priestess makes her way to the cathedral entrance to meet the exhausted servant and the two ladies accompanying him, “Goddess above, it’s been years! And these would be your–”

“They are exiles,” Simien interrupts her. Mercedes and her mother politely bow with their hands together to introduce themselves, “I know it is far too late in the day to be asking this so suddenly, but you have to take them in, Lady Agnes, I beg of you.”

“Without question, Simien,” Agnes smiles, patting the servant on the shoulder, “You know very well of our tradition here at the Galatean church. It hasn’t changed since you first arrived.”

“That is good to hear,” Simien relaxes upon hearing this, “In fact, I need a place to stay as well.”

“Ah, but what about your position in the House Bartels?” Agnes gasps, anticipating the worst. Simien shakes his head.

“Do not worry about that, I can explain in the morn. For now, the three of us need rest.”

“Of course, do forgive me for prying!” With a tender gesture, she leads them further inside the cathedral. “The Goddess smiles on you, we just happen to have a vacant room available for you all.”

“Thank you so much, Lady Agnes,” Mercedes’ mother bows in appreciation. Mercedes timidly does the same but says nothing.

“Agnes, you are a true modern Saint.” Simien exclaims as they make their way through the warmly lit interior.

“Oh, do not say such things!” Agnes lightheartedly objects, “For me to be compared to the Saints of Seiros, I might consider it blasphemy!” Simien laughs at this, something he had not done in a long time.

As they make their way through the cathedral, Mercedes looks around in awe. It was far bigger than the local church near House Bartels and had an abundance of candles and statues. To her, it almost feels overwhelming, but also somewhat alleviates her heavy grief-filled heart.

“This place is so beautiful,” Mercedes utters without a second thought.

“Isn’t it?” Agnes agrees, delighted to hear the young girl show so much admiration for the church.

“Say Agnes, why is it you are up at this hour, past midnight? Does the church have you doing night shifts now?”

“That is indeed the case. Personally, I don’t mind,” Agnes replies in a chipper tone, “I do enjoy the tranquility of the night hours.”

“Well, someone must enforce curfew I suppose,” Simien mutters, scratching his head, “In all honesty, I am surprised to have made it past the Galatean gates at this time. Were it not for these two ladies, the guards might not have given me the benefit of the doubt.”

“What matters now is that you’re all safe,” Agnes nods. They slow down to a halt as they approach a small personal chamber within the cathedral, “This is where you’ll be staying for now. Forgive the clutter,” Mercedes’ mother shakes her head.

“It is more than enough. Again, thank you so much – my daughter and I are ever grateful.” Mercedes' mother exclaimed.

“Thank you,” Mercedes quietly speaks from behind her mother. Agnes gives a warm smile in return. With quick bows between them, they are left alone, and the three exiles fall asleep within the hour.

\--

As day broke in the morning hours with warm sunlight filtering through the curtains, Baron Bartels awakes to a sudden knocking on his chamber door.

“You may enter,” he yells out groggily. He has no intentions of getting out of bed. The door opens, and a solemn knight stands before the doorway with a servant accompanying him. Recognizing him, Baron Bartels sits up in his bed.

“Sir, the deed is done,” the knight proclaims without any enthusiasm.

“Magnificent, I knew you two would be perfect fits for the job. As for the reward—”

“Actually Sir, regarding the servant,” the knight averts his eyes from the Baron’s, “Unfortunately, he lacked the conviction to see the two girls killed and tried to stop me. I was forced to execute him as well.”

“Is that so? My loyal Simien did that?” the Baron furrows his brow and strokes his stubbly chin, “I suppose I had misjudged him, then. I never would have imagined.”

“It is regrettable that I had to slay a fellow servant of the house.”

“Nonsense. I see now that your loyalty is exceptional, to be as unwavering in your actions as you were. If that was Simien’s true nature, it is better to have found out like this and have him immediately disposed, is it not?”

“I suppose so, Sir.”

“I intended to split the reward, but you can have his half, you earned it,” the Baron concludes, then dismissively waves his hand, “If that is all, then you are all dismissed. I’d like to rest a while longer.” The knight and servant excuse themselves and close the door, and the Baron happily resumes his slumber.

\--

_“Mercie! Mercie!” Emile’s voice echoes throughout the forest. “Where are you? I miss you! I miss our mother!” Mercedes looks around, unable to find him. The dead trees of the forest create a jagged silhouette against the deep purple sky. It almost appears as if those threes are growing, encompassing the entire sky. She tries to call out to her brother, but her voice is silent. “You’re gone, aren’t you? I wasn’t strong enough, I wasn’t!” Emile's familiar cry fills her ears as she frantically runs through the woods, looking for him. She wants to comfort him, to calm him, to stop his cries from filling her ears but she can’t. Then she hears the Baron’s voice, and it freezes her in place out of fear._

_“Emile!” his voice booms, shaking the leafless trees, “Leave those worthless women alone! They will never amount to nothing! Those women are a curse to you! A weakness! They are meant to follow you, not the other way around!”_

_Then, the voice stops. The sky fades from purple to black. Mercedes is left in silence. Then, she found him, looking at the ground. Emile! She ran towards him, but abruptly stops herself. A rushing red river flows between them, the waves crashing violently on the rocks. Again, she tries to call out to him and get his attention, but no sound comes out. She observes her brother, or what appears to be her brother, stand still with his back towards her. His gaze remains fixated on the ground. However, he was no longer crying. That is what she wanted, wasn’t it? Should she be happy? She wonders, wistfully gazing at the figure of her brother. Even though he stopped crying, does that make him happy?_

“Goddess, please!” Mercedes yells out, in a cold sweat.

“It’s okay, Mercie, it’s okay,” her mother coos, running her hands through Mercedes’ hair. “You’re safe, mommy’s here,”

“Mommy?” Mercedes feels tears well up in her eyes as she looks up into her mothers’ pale blue eyes. Her mother’s hair is gently falling over Mercedes’ face, like a curtain. Slowly, her breathing relaxed. Tears slowly flow down her cheeks. Her mother wipes them away with her thumb.

“It’s alright now sweetie, no one can hurt us here.” Despite her own heavy heart, her mother braves out her own emotions for the sake of her daughter.

“Emile—” Mercedes chokes out.

“I know, dear. I miss him too.” Mercedes’ mother’s grief was accompanied by an underlying hatred. A hatred against the Baron, who would steal her own child from her. At the very least, Mercedes remained by her side. The thanked the Goddess for that. Together, she hoped, they could withstand the pain together. Suddenly, there was a knocking on the door.

“Breakfast is ready. May I come in?” Simien announces from across the door.

“Are you hungry, Mercie?” Her mother asks in a hushed voice. Mercedes solemnly nods. “Come in, Simien,” Simien emerges from the door with a tray in his hands.

“It’s not ideal, Lady Martritz, but it’s what was available. A vegetable soup with crackers. “

“Sounds lovely to me,” Lady Martritz laughs, enjoying the sound of her old name once more. Despite the severity of it all, recent events inspired a new sense of hope in her, “Say, Simien. You said we could converse more once we settled in.”

“Are you settled in, Lady Martritz?” Simien asks as he puts out the bowls and utensils on a small wooden table on the room. He gestures for them to eat. Mercedes reluctantly lifts herself from her bed and begins eating.

“It’s strange to say, but I feel more settled in here after one night more than I did the entirety of my life in House Bartels,” Lady Martritz confesses, “Then again, being a holy place such as a cathedral, I cannot help but feel protected already.”

“I suppose that makes sense to me, somewhat. What would you like to discuss, milady?”

“I—I don’t know,” Lady Martritz exhales sharply, “It’s been forever since I’ve been allowed to converse so casually. Honestly, I was hoping you could carry the conversation for now,”

“I was hoping the same, actually,” Simien admits sheepishly, with a hand behind his neck, “Being a servant has—in a word—dulled my capacity for casual conversation.” Lady Martritz laughs.

“Oh, look at us, awkward as if we were both teenagers,” Lady Martritz’s smiles faintly, hiding her worry behind her naturally gentle expression, “I suppose getting to know each other’s backgrounds would be a good start.”

“I’m afraid I already know everything about you, strange as that may seem. As a servant I was privy to all that information,” Simien discloses, “However, it appears to me that is completely unfair, so I will share my bit of history with you.”

“By all means,” Lady Martritz leans in intently.

“Well, you know already that I hail from Sreng. It’s a mostly barren landscape, filled with mountains and desert. Our population is divided by clans, and the chieftains choose to wage war or negotiate agreements. It’s a simple social order, really. Not very comparable Fódlan.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Lady Martritz interjects, “Experience has taught me Fódlan’s territories and houses are no different from clans or tribes.”

“In a sense, I suppose so. Regardless, my clan was in the western edge of Sreng, by the Fódlan border. As you know, there have been many disputes there between the nations,” Simien’s voice picks up in vigor, “The Kingdom sees Sreng as nothing more than territory with wasted potential and resources. I was sent into a conflict many years ago against Kingdom forces, however I used the opportunity to flee into Kingdom territory instead. I knew that the divided nature of our nation meant that the people of Sreng were doomed to fail.”

“You’re very smart to have realized that.”

“Am I? Even now, I cannot help but see myself as a traitor. To everything, I have been disloyal. To my nation, to the church, and to House Bartels.”

“To the church?” Lady Martritz tilts her head curiously.

“Well, the truth is I have no faith in the Goddess at all. The church graciously accepted and cared for me, and I can’t even give them my piety in return.”

“I see,” Lady Martritz sees the unease in Simien’s eyes. These are not the steady eyes she thought he saw the world through.

“And now, with an invasion into Sreng being plotted by the Kingdom, I feel more guilt than ever. In truth, that is why I fled House Bartels. I plan to return to Sreng. Saving the lives of both of you only provided me with enough justification to do so.” As Simien finishes this sentence, he buries his head into his hands. Tenderly, Lady Martritz reaches for his hand and takes it between her own.

“You’re very brave to do what you did. I can tell you are a good man with a good heart,” Lady Martritz says with a soothing voice, “Forget these petty allegiances to nations or churches. You are not a traitor to your own heart, and that is what matters. Too many men sacrifice the latter for the former.”

“Lady Martritz—I,” Simien feels himself much calmer now, as if in the presence of an angel, “Aren’t you yourself faithful to the Church of Seiros? You would call that petty?”

“It so happens that my heart and teachings of Seiros align. It brings me great solace in my life. That is not the case for everybody,” she lets go of his hand.

“You inspire great confidence in me, milady, thank you,” Simien nods and clears his throat, “Ah, but enough of my rambling, we should eat. It seems our meal has gotten cold.”

“Yes, let’s!” Lady Martritz turns to face her bowl and scoots her chair forward. Before eating, she glances over to Mercedes, who has long been finished with her breakfast. Instead, Mercedes has her face resting on folded arms, as she longingly looks out of the narrow stone windows of their chamber. She knows the exact thoughts that run through her daughter’s mind.


	6. Days Gone

Imperial Year 1167

Day 26 of the Horsebow Moon

Many days had gone and went since the day Mercedes and her mother left, but Emile could not bother to count them. Instead, he sat in his bed in silence, seldom leaving his room. Emile was surprised to see that his father never once scolded him during this time, and instead ordered servants to bring Emile his meals, which he ate very little of. Emile’s head ached as he was caught between the desire to recall his memories of Mercedes and desperately wanting to forget them, in hopes that the pain would pass. He would fall asleep occasionally, only to be assailed by chilling nightmares: of their death, of his loneliness, of his weakness. He woke at irregular hours of the day, tossing and turning, desperately wishing he wouldn’t have to wake up in a world without Mercedes and her mother.

Emile looks at the overcast sky, thunder echoing in the distance. He had spent the entire day watching the dark clouds swirl together, into an imposing figure in the sky. His eyes look out expectantly. The rain reminded him of the caressing of his sister and mother, of days spent inside and sewing, happy. It also lulled him to sleep, letting his weary eyes rest peacefully for a while. At least, until the rain would subside. Suddenly, Emile hears a knock on his door.

“I’m not hungry,” he calls out from under his pillow. The door opens anyway. Emile lifts his head to see the trespasser.

“My son,” Baron Bartels enters the room, closing the door behind him, “How are you feeling?” Emile looks away and says nothing. He feels a lot of things, but he knows that’s not what his father wants. The Baron sighs and goes up to his son’s bed, placing a hand on Emile’s head. It’s firm, not like the tender touch he missed so much.

“It hurts,” he admits to his father. The Baron smiles slightly upon hearing this. _ He trusts me, then? _ He thinks, before straightening out his face again.

“That’s normal, Emile,” the Baron says, his voice lower than usual, “It’s the same for me.”

“I’m sorry, father,” Emile mutters. He sinks further into his bed.

“Don’t apologize, son, but listen,” the Baron leans in closer, deepening his voice, “I need you to get stronger. Don’t you want to avenge your sister and mother?” The words repeat in Emile’s head, stirring some emotions within him. His hands tremble at the thought.

“I,” the words get caught in Emile’s throat, “I do want to. But—”

“I believe you can get stronger, son. I’ve hired a private sword tutor for you,” the Baron reassures him, “And I have knights tracking down those bandits. You’ll come with me when we find them, won’t you?” Emile’s eyes widen. _ Fighting bandits _? He suddenly felt lightheaded.

“I don’t know—” Emile whimpers.

“I know you need time to grieve,” Baron Bartels sighs, lifting himself from the bed, “But it won’t bring peace to this family. Only a sword can.”

“I understand, father,” Emile nods.

“Your training begins in five days,” the Baron informs him, “Try and get the last of your tears out before then. Goodnight, Emile.” He shuts the door behind him as he leaves.

“Goodnight father,” Emile mumbles, wrapping himself within his bedsheets. _ Revenge? _ He rolls around the word on his tongue, assessing how he felt about. _ Is that what Mercedes would want? _ He shakes his head. _ Mercedes is gone, _ he tells himself, painfully, _ I need to do what father wants. If I did that before, then— _Emile’s head aches. He hates how indecisive he is. He hates how much time he spends in his own mind.

\--

A golden light fills the Cathedral as the sun retreats from the sky. With church services done for the day, Mercedes finds herself walking between the pews, running her hands along their smooth wooden surface. Then, something catches her eye: a small black bow with light stripes. She quickly goes over to pick it up.

“I thought I lost you,” she sighs, lifting it to her face. Wrapping it around her right hand, she knees towards the altar to make a prayer, “Please, Goddess, look over Emile and keep him safe,”

“You’re praying again, at this hour?” Mercedes opens her eyes, and turns around, her face bearing a timid expression. When she sees Agnes approaching her, and her tense body eases slightly.

“I came to look for the ribbon I dropped,” Mercedes innocently replies, holding the ribbon out in her hand, “and then I just thought I might as well pray,”

“It’s okay, Mercie, really,” Agnes smiles her usual smile, kneeling to meet Mercedes' eyes, “I think it's great how devoted you are to the Goddess,”

“You do?” Mercedes asks, feeling moved by her words. These are words she was not used to hearing growing up.

“Absolutely,” Agnes nods, “However, whenever I see someone praying multiple times a day, I can’t help but sense a troubled soul inside them,” Mercedes lets her gaze fall slightly, and Agnes immediately knows her intuition to be correct.

“Well, um,” Mercedes hesitantly lifts herself up, her face is scrunched slightly, “I really miss my little brother,”

“I see, I wasn’t aware you had a brother,” Agnes admits.

“He didn’t come with us when we left the house,” Mercedes explains with her hands held together, “But I think he wanted to. Now he’s stuck back there, all alone.”

“Oh, my,”

"I feel terrible,” Mercedes chokes out, “Every night I hear him crying, and I know I’m not there to cheer him up. I pray as much as I can every day to make sure he’s okay.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Agnes places a hand on her heart, “I know that feeling as well, to be parted from family,” Mercedes sees Agnes demeanor change now, with limp shoulders and strained neck. She has painful memories too.

“Let’s pray together,” Mercedes suggests, with sudden resolve, “We can pray for each other's family. Two prayers are stronger than just one.”

“My, how right you are! Let’s!” Agnes agrees, trying to match the little girl’s vigor. Together, they kneel before the altar for a period of silence. After their prayers are sent, they both stand up and Mercedes goes to hug Agnes. She is taken aback, surprised to see the girl who had been so reserved suddenly show unrestrained energy. She accepts the embrace.

“Thanks for praying for my brother,” Mercedes says sincerely, “and everything you do for me and my mommy,”

“Of course, Mercie,” Agnes smiles again, “I hope I was able to help your troubled soul find some peace. It’s not easy, but we always have to try.” Mercedes looks up at Agnes face, observing it for a moment.

“You’re so pretty Agnes,” Mercedes says unabashedly, “Your hair is such a nice color, it reminds me of my old garden,” Agnes blushes at the sudden compliment. _ This girl is really something else, _ she thinks.

“Thank you, Mercie,” she laughs, “Green is a rare color to be born with in Fódlan. Truly, I am blessed to have been born with it. I think your hair is beautiful, too.”

“Mercie?” a voice calls out from the other side of the cathedral. Both Agnes and Mercedes turn to find her mother approaching, “I was wondering where you were!”

“I was praying for Emile, mommy,” Mercedes exclaims, “Agnes helped, too.”

“Is that so? Well, I’m glad!” Lady Martritz smiles upon hearing that, “Thank you, Agnes.”

“Well, praying is my specialty!” Agnes lightheartedly remarks. The cathedral interior darkens as the last of the daylight fades from the windows.

“It’s getting late now,” Lady Martitz yawns, “Let’s go back to our room and sleep, Mercie. Simien is leaving in the morning.”

“Simien is leaving already?” Agnes says in disbelief, “It’s hardly been two weeks—”

“I know, I don’t agree with it either,” Lady Martitz shakes her head solemnly, “However his mind is made up. He’s afraid he won’t find peace any other way.”

“He’s always so stubborn,” Agnes sighs, “Though I suppose that is his virtue as well.”

After wishing Agnes a good night, Mercedes takes her mother’s hand as they head towards their chamber. Her mother’s hands were once soft, almost angelic. Now they felt coarse, with creases and scratches. The hands of a commoner. Her mother’s face tells a similar story, with strands of hair strewn about unevenly, pallid cheeks and darkened circles under her eyes. Still, her mother smiles, and her eyes look forward with confidence.

“Mommy, you look tired,” Mercedes speaks with a hushed voice.

“I am tired, sweetie,” she replies slowly, her words tender.

“Then why,” Mercedes pauses, reticent in her speech, “Why do you smile? Aren’t you sad, mommy?” 

Suddenly, her mother stops walking. After a moment, she kneels in front of Mercedes and and takes her soft cheeks into her tired hands. Mercedes locks gazes with her mother's watery eyes.

“Mercie, you are my life,” her mother’s gentle voice was on the verge of breaking, “I thank the Goddess I get to see your face every day. I thank the Goddess that the church has given us food and shelter,”

“Mommy—” Mercedes tries to interject, but her mother continues, as if she is speaking to herself.

“I thank the Goddess that we don’t have to hide in our rooms, in that cold and empty house. I thank the Goddess that my life is finally my own,” tears begin to run down her face now, curving inwards along the shape of her smile, “That bastard took Emile away from us, Mercie, but I’m blessed to still have you. That’s why I’m smiling.”

Mercedes wails and falls in her mother’s arms. With dim moonlight pouring in from the windows, they fiercely embrace one another. A silent prayer hangs above their heads, for themselves and for Emile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, we reach a turning point in the story. Expect the pace to change slightly in the following chapters. I hope you have enjoyed reading it so far!


End file.
